


many happy returns

by doritoFace1q



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Birthday, Gen, Monologue, The Year That Never Was (Doctor Who), general creepiness and warnings bc simm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:34:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27694924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doritoFace1q/pseuds/doritoFace1q
Summary: The Master talks, and wishes the Doctor would listen.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	many happy returns

**Author's Note:**

> obligatory ytnw fic. got the idea a while ago, thought today would be a great day to write it.

“Lucy made us use reusable bags,” he said, spinning himself around in his chair. “Climate change, she said. Wanted to be seen ‘setting an example.’” He huffed. “Pointless in the long run, I know, but it was cheaper. Humans love money, have you noticed?” He kicked his heels up onto the table, rocking himself from side to side. “It’s ridiculous. Still. The treehuggers are _drooling_ for me.” He frowned. “Were,” he corrected. He shrugged. “Can’t hug ‘em if they don’t exist, I guess.”

He fancied he heard a rustle of breath. He plowed on. “That’s a point for me, though, isn’t it?” he pressed. “In the morals department. I mean, when you think about it, what’s worse, a total takeover or disposable plastics? At least I don’t drag it out.”

Silence. He rolled his eyes and kicked away from the table. “I never understood it, you know.” More silence. “Why you bothered?” he prompted. “How do you _do_ it? How do you care?”

The grind of the engines was all he got in response. “I mean,” he continued, “what have you even done? Created expectations you couldn’t live up to?” He paused, then chuckled. “No, actually, I take it back. That sounds about right.”

The room was empty, save for the two, but, had another been with them, they would have heard the squeak of rubber wheels accompanying the nearly imperceptible shift of an aged body in a wheelchair.

“They’re so _dedicated_ ,” he said, lip curling. “Your Freak—he could have gone with the Jones girl, you know? But he stayed. For _you_ .” He clasped his hands, batting his eyelashes. “Such devotion!” He bared his teeth. “ _Sweet_.” He put a hand over his eyes and squinted down, as if he could see right through the black clouds and all the way down to the charred grey surface below. “How many do you think are down there right now?” he asked. “Or have you lost count?” He laughed, too sharp, too brittle, for anyone but a fool to mistake for friendly. “You’re a tank and a few morals away from having your own personal army,” he said. “I’m almost jealous.”

A ripple of annoyance like arsenic leaking into the air brushed over him. He snapped his fingers and whirled around. “I know!” he exclaimed, a grin that was all teeth and far too sharp ripping across his face. “We could find Miss Grant, bring her up here. A proper family reunion. She’d love the view, don’t you think?” A cracking grind of brittle bones as a wrinkled claw of a hand curled into a shaking fist. He pouted. “Oh, _fine_.” He blew a raspberry. “Downer.”

He gave the chair a final spin before leaping to his feet and prancing across the deck. “I _do_ wonder, though,” he said. “You do, at least. And your sorrows are mine, or something like that.” He plopped his arms down on the back of the wheelchair and propped his chin upon the top of the other man’s head. “I could tell you, you know,” he said conversationally, ignoring the small, pained grunt. “I could tell you anything. Find anyone.” He tilted his head, chin digging into his fellow’s head. “ _Anyone_ ,” he enunciated.

He felt a microscopic shift beneath him, then nothing. He scowled and pushed away. The wheelchair rattled across the floor and bumped into the wall. “I had the _best_ sharkfin soup yesterday,” he told him. “They say the fin doesn’t do anything, you know? Just _texture_ .” He ran a tongue over his teeth. “Texture,” he repeated. “Texture, texture.” He spun around and threw himself onto the table, kicking a chair out for a footrest. “ _Texture_ .” He scoffed. “That is what they’d say, isn’t it?” He clucked his tongue. “Poor dears,” he sighed. “They don’t know what they’re missing, do they?” He leaned back on his arms, kicking his heel against the plush leather seat. _One-two-three-four_ , _one-two-three-four_. He saw the hunching figure, silhouetted against the crimson sky, tense up ever so slightly, and he grinned. “You ever take Jackity-Jack on a flavour tour?” he asked, tilting his head back. The light of the setting sun was a burning red that almost hurt to look at, washing what shadows it touched with flaming scarlet. It crept in through the windows like an unwanted guest, bouncing off the glasses and brass fixtures along the walls and painting mosaics on the ceiling. Sharp lines cutting across curling tendrils and crisscrossing over patches of red like broken glass and wisps of wavering light. “Or Miss Jones? Her mother’s pretentious; maybe she likes fine cuisine.” Nothing. He slid onto his back and rolled over, propping his chin up in his hands. “No?” He fluttered his eyelashes. “What about _Rose_?”

The snap of tension in the air was almost audible. He let out a bark of laughter. “Yeah. Alternate universe, right?” He clucked his tongue. “Shame,” he said. “I’d have liked to see what she could have done.”

He’d praised the other man’s rage, once; tied him down and dug through his very soul to get his hands on it. The quivering tension in his shoulders was pitiful in comparison. “Oh, come _on_ ,” he groaned, rolling off the table. “Don’t tell me you’re still sulking? Today, of all days?”

He wrapped his arms around the caving pillar of righteousness and rested his chin on his shoulder, blinking up at him with the roundest eyes he could make. “What if I apologized?” he asked innocently. “You like that, don’t you? Seems to be all you do, these days.” He pouted dramatically. “ _I’m sorry_ ,” he mimicked, lips quivering mockingly. “ _Sorry, sorry, so_ **_so_** _sorry. Everything is my fault. Sorry, sorry, I’m so_ ** _terribly_** _sorry_.”

He didn’t meet his eyes, gaze never even shifting from its place beyond the glass, beyond the clouds, beyond the seas of smog and into a place he couldn’t follow. He sighed and pressed a kiss that was almost tender to his cheek. “Happy birthday, Doctor,” he said softly.

*

The next morning, Japan burned. The Master held his hand until the very last ember died.

**Author's Note:**

> happy 57th doccy who
> 
> tumblr: [doritoFace1q](https://doritoface1q.tumblr.com/)


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